


I'll Raise You Like A Phoenix

by colonel_bastard



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Horny Teenagers, Leather Jackets, M/M, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Piercings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Tattoos, Teenage Rebellion, Tragic Romance, Underage Drinking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you're two punk kids in love, sometimes it feels like the whole world is trying to tear you apart.  Steve and Bucky aren't giving up without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Raise You Like A Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for my very dear friend [Ash.](http://battyash.tumblr.com/) Happy belated birthday, buddy! 
> 
> For my prompt, I was given [this glorious piece of fanart](http://giallodih.tumblr.com/post/48217903732/warm-up-i-wanted-to-do-a-steve-bucky-fa-and-my) and told to let my imagination run wild. Boy, did it ever! Not in recent memory has a fic taken on such a life of its own. I had intended to do only a simple one-shot, but the next thing I knew, I'd written the whole epic love story. It got so long that I almost posted it in smaller pieces, but then I thought, fuck it. Here's the whole shebang. 
> 
> Please check the tags if you're squeamish— there's some dark stuff in this story and I don't want anyone to be blindsided. 
> 
> Title is taken from [this perfect Fall Out Boy song.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xg_VG03wA8k)

**Brooklyn, 1977.**

Steve Rogers is fourteen years old and small for his age when Bucky Barnes stands up for him for the first time. 

He’s in the middle of getting the shit kicked out of him by a pair of junior football players when an unknown voice suddenly interjects, “Hey! Pick on someone your own size!” Not in the mood for a fair fight, the jocks make themselves scarce, and Steve finds himself being helped to his feet by his rescuer. 

“What the hell was that about?” the stranger wonders. 

“One of them said punk was for faggots. I told him to show some goddamn respect.” Steve spits a mouthful of blood to the ground. “Then I socked him in the face.” 

The stranger laughs. “Man, you don’t know when to run from a fight, do you?” 

His name is Bucky. He’s a freshman, too. At first Steve assumes that’s the only thing they have in common, but then Bucky smiles and points at something.

“I like your bag.”

Steve looks down and realizes that he’s indicating the painstakingly-stenciled Ramones logo that Steve drew on in permanent ink, much to his parents’ dismay. He looks up again, astonished. 

“You like the Ramones?” 

From that moment on, they’re inseparable. 

Their parents are against it from the start. Each set blames the other for raising the punk rock hooligan that’s now corrupting their precious angel. Steve’s parents freak out when Bucky helps him tear every pair of jeans he owns into shreds. Bucky’s parents freak out when Steve helps him cover his fancy new leather jacket in safety pins. Steve and Bucky don’t listen to any of them. They spend their time devouring every record they can get their hands on, reading every magazine article they can find, and gradually converting their wardrobes until they don’t have a single decent scrap of clothing left between them. 

They’re fifteen years old when they start breaking curfew to take the subway into Manhattan to see the shows in person. Still living off their allowances, they jump the turnstiles and sneak into clubs whenever they can, just two more kids getting swept up in the frenzy. Steve has never felt so alive. He’s never felt so free. He gets home at three o’clock most mornings. Sometimes his father is waiting up to scream at him, but most nights the old man can’t make it that late. Bucky’s dad— who only ever calls him _James_ —is always waiting up when he gets home. Bucky’s dad _hates_ Steve. Bucky doesn’t care. 

They lock themselves in their bedrooms and spend their days dreaming of starting their own band. It’s going to be outrageous and incredible, obviously. Steve will be the lead singer. Bucky wants to be the bass player because they get to have all the fun. The fact that he can’t actually play the bass yet is immaterial. Of course, thinking of the band name is the best part. 

“It’s gotta be nasty,” Bucky says, sprawled on his back on the floor of Steve’s room. “I mean really fucking bad.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, sprawled on the bed. “But I want it to say something, too. Something about what we stand for, you know?”

“ _Fuck_ standing for something,” Bucky snorts. “There’s nothing left to stand for.” 

“That’s what I _mean,_ ” Steve says, and he can hear himself getting louder and more animated as he goes on. “I want something that will remind everyone that this fucking country is going down the drain. I want everyone to see that the system is broken and the only way out is to tear it apart. They keep telling us to be proud of our nation, but man, I grew up watching a war on my fucking TV set. The dream is dead. Fuck this country.” 

Bucky has propped himself up on his elbows to watch him. He looks amazed. Steve has never had someone look at him like that before. It makes him feel jittery with excitement, like he’s sitting at the top of a roller coaster dive. 

“I got it,” Bucky says. “Let’s call you Captain America.” 

They brainstorm the Captain America character together. It’s a fantastic fuck-you persona, a giant middle finger to all the grand patriotic dreams that their parents’ generation managed to flush down the toilet. Steve, an amateur artist, even doodles up a band logo— an old-fashioned superhero in a star-spangled costume, with a big white **A** in the middle of his forehead and a pair of white wings jutting from his temples. Bucky adores it. 

“I think you’re on to something, Steve,” he enthuses. “I really think you’re gonna make some noise with this.”

“Yeah, but if I’m Captain America,” Steve wonders. “What does that make you?”

At first, Bucky just laughs off the question with a dismissive gesture. Then, after a moment of thought, he grows quiet and solemn. 

“I’m the guy that backs up Captain America,” he says. “And that’s all I want to be.” 

Steve Rogers is sixteen years old and on the cusp of a growth spurt when Bucky Barnes kisses him for the first time. 

It’s the best summer of his life. Taking the subway down to Bleecker Street, sneaking into CBGB’s to lose their minds at the shows, then making out in the alley behind the club, Bucky’s hands shoved into the back pockets of Steve’s tattered jeans. They use needles, threads, and pencils to tattoo their names on each other, Bucky leaving a signature on Steve’s upper back while Steve prints his name carefully on Bucky’s left shoulder. They lock themselves in their bedrooms and fool around for hours. They talk about running away to Manhattan and never coming back. They have their whole lives ahead of them. 

It’s the night before their junior year of high school starts, and they’re coming back into Brooklyn on a late running of the 4 train. Bucky has his fingers intertwined with Steve’s on the seat between them. 

“Why are we going back to school tomorrow?” he asks. “Why don’t we just go for it?” 

“I dunno,” Steve sighs. “I’m broke as shit, man.” 

“Me too.” Bucky shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. We’d be together.” 

Steve squeezes his hand. 

“Soon,” he promises. 

The next day at school, Bucky never shows up. 

Steve tries calling, but every time Mr. Barnes recognizes his voice he slams the phone back into the cradle. He begs his parents to ask about it, but they’re overjoyed at the chance to have the bad influence out of the picture and they refuse. He tries waiting in the street outside of Bucky’s apartment building, staring up at his bedroom window, but he never even catches a glimpse of him. 

The whole first week of classes goes by and Bucky never makes an appearance. Worried and increasingly desperate, Steve has no other option. He puts on his plainest, nicest clothes and goes over to knock on the Barnes’s front door. 

Mr. Barnes answers. 

“You got a lot of nerve—” he growls. 

“Look, Mr. Barnes, I know you’re not happy to see me,” Steve interjects. “But Bucky hasn’t been showing up for classes and I just want to make sure he’s okay.” 

“Okay?” Mr. Barnes repeats, incredulous. “You want to know if he’s _okay?_ ” His expression hardens. “My son is dead.” 

Steve’s guts rush up into his throat so fast that he almost throws up. 

“What?” he splutters. “That— that can’t— what happened?” 

“He came home last Sunday at four o’clock in the morning, smelling like cigarettes and with hickeys all over his goddamn neck.” Mr. Barnes takes a step towards Steve, his voice turning low and vicious. “I tell him that’s the last time he’s gonna see that piece of trash boy-toy. I tell him that no son of mine is gonna be some kind of punk rock queer. I tell him to kiss his old life goodbye.” He takes a step back again before he delivers the final blow. “And that little son of a bitch went upstairs and slit his fucking wrists.” 

Steve actually staggers as though struck, his head reeling and his chest constricting. 

“You are so full of shit,” he pants. “Bucky would never—”

“Why? Because of _you?_ ” Mr. Barnes sneers. “He’s better off now. If he wasn’t gonna do it, I sure as hell was, and he knew it. That boy was a fucking disgrace.” He spits in Steve’s face. “Now get out of my building, you faggot piece of shit.” 

The slam of the door is enough to drive Steve to his knees. 

He’s numb for weeks. 

By the time feeling returns to his sluggish, aching limbs, nothing seems to matter anymore. 

They were each other’s only friend. Now that Bucky’s gone, he’s facing high school alone for the first time since he started. He no longer has the willpower or even the desire to drop out, so he resigns himself to at least mustering a passing grade on all his classes. When he hits a late growth spurt a month later, his parents use it as an excuse to buy him a whole new wardrobe. A _sensible_ one. He doesn’t protest. 

It’s just another mindless day, just another lunch period spent alone in the cafeteria, when out of the blue someone approaches his corner table. 

“I liked your presentation today.” It’s Peggy Carter, a girl from his U.S. History class. “About the demobilization of the troops after World War II.” 

“They got a shitty deal,” Steve mutters, not taking his eyes off his sandwich. 

“I’d never really thought about the issue before,” she says. “It was very enlightening.” 

Steve looks up at her, mute. A year ago he might have told her to fuck off, but lately it seems like all the fight’s been knocked out of him. 

“I don’t think it’s right for you to be sitting over here by yourself,” she says abruptly. 

Steve shrugs. “I don’t have anyone to sit with.” 

“I know.” She hesitates, then sits down at the table across from him. “I know you used to be really good friends with Bucky Barnes before he—”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Steve says, the word clipped and desolate. 

She nods and falls silent, studying her folded hands on the tabletop. After a long moment, she stubbornly tries again.

“Look,” she says. “I’m just saying that you don’t have to be alone.” 

He gives her a weak smile. 

“Are you saying that you want to be my friend, Peggy?” 

“Yes.”

“Then if we’re gonna be friends, you have to make me one promise.” 

He gestures for her to lean in, then states his terms. 

“Never talk to me about Bucky Barnes again.” 

And for the rest of their high school career together, she honors those terms to the letter. She’s a good friend. Steve is lucky to have her. 

It’s three weeks before graduation and he’s sitting on a picnic blanket in Prospect Park with Peggy and her friend Howard Stark, trying to help Peggy talk Howard out of going naked under his gown and flashing everyone when he gets his diploma. Steve can tell he isn’t serious, but Peggy seems to be genuinely concerned about the possibility and desperate to persuade him otherwise. It should be funny, but all Steve can think about is the fact that it sounds exactly like something Bucky would have done if he were walking the stage with the rest of them. 

The sadness must show, because all of a sudden the conversation has ground to a halt and Peggy is laying her hand on his knee, her face written all over with worry.

“Steve,” she wonders. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says hastily, but then he admits, “I was just thinking about... Bucky Barnes.” He coughs. Saying the name hurt worse than he thought. “He would have turned eighteen last week.”

“Would have?” Howard says, his expression quizzical. “Uh, I’m pretty they still have birthdays in the nuthouse.” 

Peggy smacks Howard on the back of the head. Steve frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m sorry,” Peggy frets. “I told him not to talk about it.” 

“No, no, that’s—” Steve shakes his head, trying to clear it. “What do you mean, the nuthouse?” 

“Would you prefer the term psychiatric institution?” Howard shrugs. “You know, wherever they carted Barnes off to when he went loony.” 

“Howard!” Peggy exclaims. 

“Carted Barnes off...?” Steve feels a familiar constriction in his chest. “They told me he was dead.” 

Peggy sucks in a sharp breath, horrified. Howard doesn’t seem to realize the sheer magnitude of the revelation. 

“Yeah, that would be more convenient, wouldn’t it?” He muses. “But I know the girl who works in the principal’s office, and she says that his old man came in and said they were pulling Barnes out of class and sending him upstate to deal with his behavioral issues. You know what _that_ means.”

Steve’s tongue feels like lead in his mouth, but he forces himself to ask, “What does it mean?” 

“You know.” Howard rolls his eyes back and rattles his teeth together demonstratively. “Therapy. Of the electroshock variety.” 

It’s almost two years too late, but this time Steve actually rolls over and vomits right into the grass. 

He doesn’t even hear Peggy apologizing over and over again, doesn’t hear her saying “ _I thought you knew, I thought you knew_ ” as he drags himself up to his feet and lurches away from them in a foggy haze. All he hears is what she said to him the first time they ever spoke.

_I know you used to be really good friends with Bucky Barnes before he—_

If only he could have let her finish. 

_—before he was sent away._

It’s a Sunday afternoon, so when he bursts through the front door of his apartment, both of his parents are home. They only have to take one look at his face to know that something is wrong. 

“Bucky Barnes,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “Did you know?” 

His father says, “Goddamn it.” 

That’s all the confirmation he needs. 

“You son of a bitch!” Steve screams, charging towards him. “How could you lie about something like this? How could you do this to me?” 

“It was for your own good!” His mother protests. 

“Mom?” He turns on her, the treachery complete. “You knew?” 

“His father called us— he said that Bucky was threatening to kill himself if we tried to keep you two from being together— what were we supposed to do, Steve?” She’s almost hysterical now, two years of guilt flooding into her system all at once. “We just wanted to protect you! That boy was dangerous!”

“You had no right to lie to me,” Steve says raggedly, batting away her attempts to comfort him. “You had no right.” 

“We had every right,” his father snaps. “We’re your parents.”

“You had to know I would find out at some point.”

“Of course we did. We just figured you’d be over it by now.” 

It’s like a guitar string pulled too tight that suddenly breaks. Looking at his parents, Steve realizes that he no longer loves them. 

He doesn’t go to school the next day. Instead, he hides down the block and waits for his parents to leave for work before he sneaks back into the apartment. Once inside, he throws the deadbolt and puts the chain on the door. 

Then he’s taking the most expensive pair of jeans he owns and ripping them to shreds, putting them on as soon as he’s finished. He’s still got a few t-shirts left from before the purge, and he pulls a Ramones shirt over his head before stuffing the rest in his backpack, along with another pair of jeans and an extra set of sneakers. In the back of his closet he finds his black combat boots and the sketchbook that has a drawing of Captain America on every page. For the finishing touch, he goes to the closet in the main hall and finds his dad’s nicest leather jacket. Then he plunders his mom’s sewing kit for every safety pin he can get his hands on. He puts most of them on the coat, but on a sudden, savage impulse he jabs the last one through his earlobe and leaves it there. 

Looking in the full-length mirror, Steve sees the person he always wanted to be, the person that everyone except Bucky tried to stop him from becoming. He’s got fucking tears in his eyes. He feels so stupid and so free. He rucks his shirt up in the back to admire Bucky’s cramped handwriting on his shoulder blade. The ink has faded, but the name is still there, damn it. They were never able to take that away from him. 

He makes a merciless pass through every room of the apartment. Every bit of cash, every piece of jewelry he can find, it all goes into his backpack. He takes his father’s gold cufflinks and his mother’s sewing scissors, which she claims are sterling silver. Anything they might be able to pawn or sell. Before he goes, he smashes every mirror in the place. He doesn’t close the front door behind him when he leaves. Maybe they’ll get robbed. 

He makes it to school in time for lunch. Peggy jumps when she sees him. 

“Jesus, Steve!” she gasps. “What happened to your ear?”

He reaches up reflexively and feels a jagged landscape of dried blood. He waves it away as a triviality. 

“I need your help.”

Actually, he needs her _and_ Howard Stark. Howard agrees to cooperate after Peggy guilt-trips him for being so callous the day before, and he gamely sweet-talks his lady friend in the principal’s office while Peggy slips in and steals the file labeled “Barnes, James B.” They meet up after school to read over it and find the name of the place where Bucky is being held. 

“Riverview Psychiatric Hospital,” Howard reads aloud. “Well, that’s that. Good luck, buddy.” 

“Hold on,” Peggy grabs him by the sleeve before he can get away. Then she looks at Steve. “You need a ride.” 

Howard is the only one of them with a car. Unfortunately, guilt-trips aren’t working this time. He only relents when Peggy agrees to go out to dinner with him when they get back. It’s right about then that Steve decides Peggy is the coolest person he’s ever known. 

“Oh, shut up,” she says briskly. “I’m only doing what any decent friend would do.”

“No, Steve’s right,” Howard laughs. “This is definitely in the category of above and beyond.” 

It’s late at night by the time they make it all the way upstate. Howard parks the car and kills the headlights a safe distance away from the hospital. 

“Okay, here’s the plan,” he whispers, even though he doesn’t really need to. “We’re gonna sit tight while you run in and grab your boyfriend. You get a ride back down, but I’m dropping you off at a motel before we hit the city. Deal?”

“Deal,” Steve whispers back. “You’re a good friend, Howard.”

“Fuck that,” Howard whispers. “I’ve been trying to get Peggy to go out with me for years.” 

“You have _not,_ ” Peggy whispers, smacking his arm. 

“Okay,” Steve whispers. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

The hospital sits on an acreage with plenty of trees, so he doesn’t feel too exposed as he approaches the building, trying to figure out how he’s going to get inside. He gets lucky when he catches a security guard stepping out for a cigarette break— he leaves the door propped open with a stick wedged under it, and while his back is turned Steve is able to slip in through the gap. 

It’s only once he’s inside that he realizes he has no idea where to look. He spends what feels like hours dodging the night personnel, though thankfully there doesn’t seem to be that many of them. He goes from floor to floor, peering in little windows and squinting at door charts in the dark. He makes it all the way to the fifth floor before he finally opens a chart and sees the name _Barnes._ Before he can check the little window set at eye level, he hears the footsteps of a night nurse approaching. He makes it to the stairwell in time to hide, and while he waits for the danger to pass, he opens the file in his lap and skims the pages of text within. 

_Barnes, James._

_Patient exhibits continued emotional distress. Recommend that electroshock treatment be maintained._

_Patient persists in inflicting self-harm. Restraints are advised._

_Patient remains disruptive during sleep hours. Heavy sedatives required._

He feels too nauseous to keep reading. Peeking out of his hiding place, he sees that the hall is deserted. He has plenty of time before she comes back— as near as he can tell, there’s only two nurses patrolling the six floors of the building, plus the two security guards at the front and rear entrances. Steve races back to Bucky’s door and crouches before the lock, using two safety pins from his jacket to pick it. It’s a trick he and Bucky taught themselves for laughs. He never thought he’d actually have to use it. 

He lets himself into the room, closing the door quickly and quietly behind him.

Those sons of bitches. Bucky is strapped down to his bed.

Steve falls to his knees beside him, fumbling desperately with the buckles at his wrists. He expects Bucky to wake up, to look at him— god, he looks so fucking skinny and weak— but he’s out cold and doesn’t come around even when Steve has stripped off every last restraint. Gingerly, Steve takes his shoulders and shakes him.

“Bucky,” he hisses. “Bucky, wake up. It’s me. It’s Steve.”

Bucky groans and furrows his brow, eyes still closed. 

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” Steve whispers. “But you have to wake up. We have to go.” 

Bucky stirs listlessly, and when his eyes finally open Steve can see that they’re glassy and dull. 

“Huh,” Bucky says, dazed, staring into space.

“Bucky,” Steve shakes him gently. “Bucky, come on.” 

The unfocused eyes settle on his general vicinity, then squint in confusion. His voice is thick and slurred. 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” 

Steve feels sick with rage and disgust. They wouldn’t even let him keep his name. Probably called him nothing but _James_ , just like his fucking father always wanted. If it weren’t for the safety of the other patients, Steve would burn this place to the ground. 

“ _You’re_ Bucky,” he whispers fiercely, squeezing his shoulders. “And I’m Steve, remember? It’s me, Steve.” 

Bucky looks so lost, so scared, but then a tiny, tremulous smile appears on his face. 

“Steve?”

And Steve is so happy that he almost bursts. 

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

It’s a whole lot easier to get out than it was to get in. All he has to do is wait for the night nurse to pass again, and then it’s just a quick scramble to the stairwell. Bucky’s so woozy he can barely walk, but Steve’s grown a good six inches since the last time they saw each other and he has no trouble hauling him along with Bucky’s arm over his shoulders. Five flights down is a little tricky— they almost wipe out on the second floor landing, and Bucky has to throw out a hand to catch himself against the wall. That’s when Steve sees the cigarette burns on the inside of his forearm. _Patient persists in inflicting self-harm._ Steve hates himself for not getting here sooner. 

They don’t have to wait long before the security guard at the back entrance gets fidgety and wanders off to get in a conversation with the guy at the front. Steve drags Bucky the short distance from the stairwell to the door, and the next thing he knows, they’re out in the fresh air. Then they’re staggering through the trees as fast as they can. 

After what feels like miles, he yanks the car door open and shoves Bucky into the backseat, diving in after him. 

“Go!” he commands, and Howard floors it. 

Nobody says anything until they’re on the interstate headed south. In the interim, Steve has shrugged out of his leather jacket and wrapped it over Bucky’s shoulders instead. Bucky is now asleep on his chest with Steve’s arm around his back. Howard looks in the rearview mirror and gives a low whistle.

“Wow,” he remarks. “He looks like shit.”

Peggy shushes him. Then she gives Steve a worried look. 

“Is he going to be okay?”

Steve feels very small and helpless. He looks down at Bucky, who’s frowning in his sleep, unhappy even in his dreams. 

“I don’t know,” he admits miserably. 

It’s almost sunrise by the time they reach the outskirts of the city. They pick a cheap motel off the interstate, and Howard idles in the car while Steve goes in and gets a key, then drives them around to their room. Peggy unlocks the door and Steve carries Bucky straight from the backseat to the bed. Bucky cracks his eyes open when Steve sets him down, but he passes right back out again, his blood still coursing with sedatives. Steve goes back to the car to get his backpack, then stops to give Peggy a farewell hug. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Peggy asks him. “You’re only three weeks from graduation.”

“If Bucky doesn’t get to graduate,” Steve says doggedly. “Then neither do I.” His expression softens. “We’re gonna figure something out. It’ll be okay.” 

She smiles, not entirely convinced but nonetheless touched by his determination. 

“Take care of yourself,” she instructs. “And him.” 

“I will.” 

Howard rolls down his window for a handshake. 

“You’re an idiot,” he says. “I respect that. Good luck.”

“You’re an asshole,” Steve laughs, accepting the gesture. “And I bet you’re gonna make a million bucks.”

“Why stop at a million?” Howard grins. “I’m going for a billion, big guy.” 

He rolls up the window, shifts the car into gear, and just like that, Steve is alone in the parking lot. 

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he goes back into his motel room and locks the door. 

Bucky sleeps for most of the morning. It’s no wonder— God only knows how many tranquilizers he has to work out of his system. Steve takes the opportunity to change him out of his grey hospital t-shirt and into one with the Sex Pistols logo on it. As he does so, he notices that it’s only Bucky’s left arm that has cigarette burns on it, and they’re scattered all the way from the wrist to the shoulder. Pushing up the sleeve of his t-shirt, Steve gets a sinking feeling in his gut. 

Where the tattoo of his name should be, there’s only a jagged scar. 

He wants to go get food, but he doesn’t want to risk not being present when Bucky wakes up. Instead he curls up beside him on the bed to wait. Since he didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, it doesn’t take long for him to doze off. 

He’s awake in a flash when he feels Bucky jolt in the bed next to him. Bucky’s eyes are open, and while they’re not as bright as they used to be, they definitely look clearer than they did last night. He’s just lying there and looking all around the room, his expression crumpling with panic and confusion. Steve sits up and leans into his field of vision. 

“Hey, hey,” he says soothingly. “It’s okay. You’re safe, I’ve got you now.” 

Bucky is breathing hard as he stares at Steve’s face, his eyes wide and searching. 

“It’s me,” Steve says. “It’s Steve. I got you out. God, I— I’m sorry it took so long.”

Bucky’s breath catches, his eyes narrowing. After a long, tense moment, he finally speaks. 

“You’re fucking _sorry?_ ”

Steve is completely unprepared for the wild haymaker that Bucky throws at his face. Even though Bucky’s on his back, he still swings with enough force to knock Steve off the bed. Steve staggers back to his feet and finds Bucky crouched in the middle of the mattress with murder in his eyes. 

“You son of a bitch,” Bucky snarls. “You left me in there to die!” 

And he launches himself off the bed, aiming for Steve’s throat. Steve catches him in the air, and the momentum sends them both crashing to the filthy carpet in a tangle of furious, thrashing limbs. 

“It’s my fault, I should have been there.” Steve is trying not to hurt him. “Bucky, please, I’m sorry!” 

“You’re _sorry?_ ” Bucky screams. “You’re _sorry?_ It’s two years too late to be sorry, you fuck! Do you know what they fucking _did to me?_ ”

Bucky pins him on his back and starts raining punches down on his face. If he wasn’t in such bad shape he’d be doing some serious damage, but even in this deteriorated condition he’s still powered by enough adrenaline to render Steve’s nose bloody and his lip split in a matter of seconds. Of course, Steve isn’t really fighting back. He deserves it. 

“I waited for you!” Bucky is sobbing with rage. “Every goddamn day I waited for you! And you never showed! You never fucking cared about me!”

“I thought you were dead!” Steve tries to catch Bucky’s wrists to stop his attack. “What was I supposed to do? They told me you were dead!” 

Bucky’s already slowing down, too weak to maintain the onslaught. 

“Bullshit,” he pants. “I needed you, man. I needed you and you never showed up.” 

His last punch goes wild, and Steve seizes the opportunity to grab him by the arm and flip him onto his side. He pulls Bucky’s back flush against his chest, wrapping his legs around his legs and his arms around his arms, immobilizing him. 

“I didn’t know,” he says heatedly, his mouth right next to Bucky’s ear. “I swear to God, Bucky, _I didn’t know._ ” 

And he just holds on to him while Bucky thrashes and spits and curses until he’s finally too exhausted to do anything but just lie there taking in deep, shaky gulps of air. Steve tries to keep his own breathing slow and even, hoping it will calm him. He doesn’t know how long they stay there on the floor together, but it feels like a lifetime. Eventually, when Bucky tugs feebly against his grip, Steve senses that it’s time to let go. 

They crawl apart from each other, each one trying to get some space, but somehow they still end up sitting side by side with their backs propped against the bed. Steve probes at his bloody nose to make sure it’s not broken. It isn’t. 

“Did they really tell you I was dead?” Bucky mumbles, his tone anguished, struggling to process this whole new level of betrayal. 

“I tried to find you as soon as you stopped showing up for class,” Steve says quietly. “Your dad told me you killed yourself.”

“Jesus,” Bucky moans, covering his face with his hands. “I’m gonna be sick.” 

“I never should have trusted him. I should have tried harder.” 

“He’s garbage.” Bucky swipes the tears from his eyes. “When he dropped me off at Riverview, he told ‘em that no matter what it took, they had to fry the faggot out of me.”

Steve makes an inarticulate sound of despair. “God, I’m so sorry.” 

“I feel sorrier for him,” Bucky gives a short, humorless bark of laughter. “It didn’t work.” 

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that, so he hauls himself up to his feet and shuffles into the grimy motel bathroom. 

“I’m gonna wash off this blood,” he says. “And then I’m gonna get you some food. Real food, none of that hospital bullshit.” 

Bucky sort of gives a tired nod as he climbs back up onto the bed. Howard was right. He looks like shit. By the time Steve has cleaned up enough to be presentable in public, Bucky’s passed out on the faded coverlet, already frowning again. Steve doesn’t wake him, just slips out discreetly and locks the door behind him.

When he comes back with two bags stuffed full of burgers and fries, he finds Bucky sitting cross-legged on the bed, the open sketchbook in his lap. He looks up at Steve, his face so full of emotion that Steve isn’t sure if he’s about to laugh or weep. 

“I remember,” Bucky says ruefully. “Captain America.” 

Steve sets the food aside and sits down on the bed next to him, not too close. 

“Yeah,” he says. “That guy.” 

“These are great.” Bucky turns the pages slowly, studying every image. “Did you ever do anything with this?”

“Nah.”

“How come?”

“It didn’t matter anymore. Not after I lost you.” 

Wordless, Bucky snaps the book shut, his hands clutched so tight on the spine of it that his knuckles turn white. Steve wants so badly to put his arms around him. 

“Look,” he says hoarsely. “What happened was... really shitty. It was shitty and unfair and I wish I could go back and fix it so it never happened. But I think we can still make something out of this. I think we still have a chance.” 

Bucky shoves the book out of his lap and draws his knees up to his chest in a protective huddle, burying his face in his arms. Steve sighs and looks away, his heart sinking. 

“I just want you to know,” he mumbles. “That you were the best thing to ever happen to me. And I’m sorry I let you down.”

Bucky lifts his head up just enough for his words to be audible. 

“You were the best thing for me, too.” 

Steve chances a sidelong look at him. “Did you... did you really say you were gonna kill yourself if we couldn’t be together?”

Bucky looks back, his eyes clear and focused. “I said I would rather die than live without you.” 

The grief constricts Steve’s chest so tightly that he can barely breathe. It’s all too much— the time that was stolen from them, the pain they endured— and he knows they’ll never be the same again, never as wild and happy and carefree as they were that perfect summer, when they took it all for granted.

“Bucky,” he chokes out. 

“I don’t wanna talk,” Bucky says, his voice heavy and tired. “Can we just... not talk? Please?”

Steve nods his head. “Sure.”

They eat half of the burgers and then turn on the television set, lying side by side on the bed with a foot or so of space between them. The motel only gets three channels, so they pick one at random and let it run, the sound turned down to a droning murmur. The whole day goes by without either of them saying a word. They just lie there, and gradually, Bucky begins to move closer. He does it in increments, first his foot reaching out to brush against Steve’s ankle, then his hand creeping across the coverlet to rest against Steve’s hip. Steve scoots a tiny bit nearer every time he gets a signal, the distance between them closing inch by inch. After a certain amount of time the sagging mattress does the rest, and when it dips under their weight they slide together to meet in the middle. There’s no reason to speak. Steve just takes Bucky in his arms and holds him as the TV goes on and on, the daytime soaps giving way to the evening news. 

When the evening news give way to the late night movie, they eat the rest of the cold burgers for dinner. After they toss all the wrappers to the floor, Steve is worried that they’ll have to start all over again— but this time when Bucky lies down he reaches out expectantly, waiting for Steve to join him. Steve switches off the television and crawls onto the bed beside him, and they fall asleep tangled in each other’s arms. 

Steve wakes up with Bucky’s hands around his throat. 

“Jesus, _fuck_ —”

Bucky is straddling him and pinning him down, his face almost unrecognizable in its fury. His eyes are open but they seem to be blind, staring right through Steve’s head, through the pillow, the bed, the floor. Steve grabs his wrists and tries to yank them apart, but Bucky’s got a grip like iron and Steve can’t tear him loose. 

“Bucky!” he wheezes. “Bucky, please—”

He claws at Bucky’s chest, his face, thrashing his hips to try and dislodge him. His lungs are screaming for air. His heart is breaking in his chest. It can’t be like this. It can’t. Bucky is bearing down on him with all his weight. When Steve tries to look into his empty eyes, it’s like Bucky isn’t even in there. 

He’ll never be able to shove him off in time. In a last-ditch attempt, Steve reverses the direction of his struggle, pulling instead of pushing so that Bucky is suddenly dragged down against him. The abrupt shift in balance loosens his grip just enough— Steve sucks in a breath and yells, “Bucky, _stop!_ ” He punctuates the command with a punch to the side of the head, and just like that, Bucky’s awake. 

It’s immediately obvious that he has no idea where he is. He rocks back on his heels, staring at Steve in total disbelief, then looking all around the motel room as though seeing it for the first time.

“It’s okay.” Steve coughs and hacks, fighting to regain his breath. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” 

Now it seems to be catching up to him, as Bucky, wild-eyed with horror, reaches up with both hands to clutch at his skull. 

“Oh God,” he moans. “It’s in my head. They got into my head.” 

“You’re okay,” Steve repeats helplessly. “I’m here, I’ve got you.” 

But Bucky is shaking his head from side to side, his despair slowly growing into rage.

“Those fuckers,” he growls. “They fucked it all up.” 

“I got you out. It’s over now.”

Steve reaches for him but Bucky smacks his hand away, refusing to be consoled.

“You don’t know,” he says darkly. “You don’t know what they did to me. They were gonna make me into a whole different person even if they had blow every circuit in the state to do it.” He points his finger like a gun and digs it against his temple. “How many volts do you think went through here in two years, huh? A thousand? Ten thousand? How much fucking electricity does it take to make someone forget who they are?” 

“I’m sorry.” Steve is fighting back tears. “Bucky, I’m so sorry I let them hurt you.” 

“They didn’t just _hurt_ me, they _changed_ me.” 

The agony in Bucky’s eyes is so raw and ugly that Steve thinks he might die from it. 

“They made me hate you, Steve,” Bucky whispers. “They made me _hate_ you.”

Unable to look at him anymore, Bucky twists away, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back towards him, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. 

“I knew you were gonna come and get me. I knew it. So I waited. It didn’t matter what they did to me— I knew you were gonna show up any minute.” He shudders with grief. “But you didn’t. Days, then weeks, then months. Nothing. I tried to hold on to that summer for as long as I could, but then winter came, and I couldn’t do it anymore.”

His fingers curl into his hair with such force that Steve is worried he might start tearing it out in fistfuls. Even if he does, Steve is too paralyzed to stop him. 

“God, I was so _angry,_ ” Bucky hisses. “At my parents, at the doctors, at the technicians who ran the fucking ECT machine— but I put it all on you. I mean, I always knew my parents were gonna let me down. The doctors were fucking strangers. But you— you were supposed to be the guy that had my back. You were the one I thought I could count on. They knew it, too. They asked me every day where you were, why you hadn’t shown up yet. They wanted me to turn on you. And it worked.” 

Bucky rounds on him, his teeth bared and his eyes burning. He yanks up the sleeve of his t-shirt and points to the scar where Steve’s name should be. 

“I did this with a piece of glass,” he snarls. “When that wasn’t enough, I started using cigarettes.” He indicates the burns scattered up and down his arm. “I wanted to kill you, Steve. If I’d seen you then, I would have killed you in a fucking heartbeat.” 

“No,” Steve moans. “Don’t say that.” 

“I had no choice!” Bucky roars. “They took _everything_ from me! They took me apart, piece by fucking piece, and they weren’t gonna stop until I had nothing left. I had to hold on to _something._ So I held on to you.” 

His voice breaks unexpectedly, and Steve can see that his eyes are shining with tears. He looks up at the ceiling to keep them from falling. 

“I couldn’t love you anymore, so I had to hate you instead. It was the only way I could keep you. It was the only way.” He covers his face with shaking hands, his shoulders heaving. “Oh God, Steve, help me, I’m so fucked up, I don’t even know who I am anymore.” 

On pure, desperate impulse, Steve lunges across the bed, grabs him by the shoulders, and drags Bucky with him into the dingy little motel bathroom. He points to their reflections in the mirror over the sink. 

“That’s you,” he says hoarsely. “And that’s me.” He gestures between them. “And this is us. That’s all that matters now.”

Trembling, Bucky stares at his reflection as though looking at a stranger. He reaches out tentatively to touch the smooth, cold surface, his fingertips following the outline of his jaw. Suddenly his face contorts with rage. He yanks his arm back, balls his left hand into a fist, and drives it straight into the center of the glass. 

They never make an agreement to do it. Somehow, they both just decide at the exact same instant to tear their motel room to pieces. 

Steve grabs the shower curtain and pulls on it with all his strength. A few of the rings snap under the strain, but enough of them hold that he’s able to rip the whole rod out of the wall and fling it to the floor. At the same time, Bucky’s grabbing the plastic toilet seat and wrenching it free of its porcelain base so he can lob it into the shower like a grenade, landing it on top of the crumpled curtain and scattered rings. He follows it with the lid of the toilet tank, which bursts into pieces on impact.

They come charging out of the bathroom like a two-man battalion, hellbent on destruction. Steve tears out every drawer he can find and Bucky stomps through the bottom of each one. They claw open the pillows and shred the sheets into ribbons. The thick coverlet is harder to damage, but with each of them pulling in opposite directions they’re able to split it apart right down the middle. Bucky smashes apart the lamps while Steve tramples the bedside table into splinters. Together they shove the television set facedown to the floor, where it lands with a muffled thump and the sound of the screen shattering. 

And when it’s all over, when the room has been reduced to ruins, they sit cross-legged and facing each on the tattered remains of the bed while Steve picks the broken glass out of Bucky’s knuckles. 

“So,” Bucky says, intently watching Steve work. “Now what?”

“Now we do what we should have done two years ago.” Steve uses strips of bedsheets to bind up the wounds. “We go to Manhattan and start our own band.” 

Bucky doesn’t say anything as Steve finishes his bandaging, just holds out his hand and gives his fingers an experimental flex when told. All in all, Steve is pretty satisfied with his work, considering he’s never done anything like it before. He goes to smile at Bucky, but then he sees the deep, dark frown on Bucky’s face. 

“What’s wrong?” he wonders immediately. 

Bucky stares down at his hands in his lap, unable to meet Steve’s gaze with his own.

“You shouldn’t do it,” he mutters. “I know you’ve gotta be coming up on graduation. You shouldn’t just throw that away, not when you can still make something of yourself.” His voice is shaking but he presses on. “It’s too late for me, Steve. I’m damaged goods. I mean at this point I’m not worth the trash bag they’d have to use to throw me out.” 

“You’re wrong,” Steve says forcefully. 

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you can still go back. And you should.” Bucky still can’t look at him. “You deserve better, Steve. So much better than... than this. Just go back and give yourself a chance at a decent life.”

And Steve leans across the space between them to take Bucky’s face in his hands, raising up those aching eyes so he can look right into them, his gaze resolute. 

“Not without you.” 

Bucky’s breath catches in his throat. Then his agonized expression slowly, slowly gives way to one of exhausted, overwhelming relief. 

Steve Rogers is eighteen years old and broke except for the contents of his backpack when Bucky Barnes kisses him for the first time all over again. 

It’s like coming home. Their hands go straight for the familiar places, their mouths connecting like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle, complete at last. Steve leans back and Bucky follows him down onto the bed, their bodies intertwining, their mouths never coming apart. At some point Steve’s split lip gets torn open again, but even when they both taste blood they don’t stop. They just kiss and kiss for what feels like hours, until their mouths are so bruised and they’re so out of breath that they finally collapse into a contented heap, their bodies so twisted up together that at first glance it would be hard to tell whose limbs were whose. 

“Let’s get some sleep,” Steve pants, rubbing Bucky’s back. “And then get out of here before they have a chance to see this mess.” 

“Anywhere you wanna go,” Bucky grabs possessive fistfuls of Steve’s Ramones t-shirt. “I’m following you.” 

Steve presses a fervent, protective kiss to his forehead. 

“We’re gonna set the world on fire,” he vows. “You and me.” 

“My hero,” Bucky smiles. “Captain America.” 

In the morning they get dressed before they hit the road. Steve laces up his combat boots while Bucky trades his hospital slippers for the sneakers. They’re too big for him, but not by so much that he can’t walk. Before he puts them on, he slips into Steve’s extra pair of jeans.

“I thought you were smaller,” he laughs, cinching the belt over his skinny hips. 

“I’ve been taking my vitamins,” Steve smirks, tousling his hair. 

They leave the room key on the ruined bed and set out on foot. Steve carries the backpack. Bucky wears the leather jacket. They hitchhike on the side of the interstate until they get a ride into the city in exchange for toll fare, and from there it’s just two subway transfers until they reach Bleecker Street. They have no plans for what they’re going to do or where they’re going to stay. The only thing that matters is that The Stimulators are playing at CBGB’s that night. 

“ _We’re gonna say it loud!_ ” The lead singer screams into the microphone. 

“ _Loud!_ ” The crowd screams back. 

“ _We’re gonna live it fast!_ ”

“ _Fast!_ ”

Steve loses himself in the frenzy and the fury of the crowd. He feels more connected to this music than he ever did before, and more desperate than ever to use it like a wrecking ball to smash the system to pieces. After two years with a bit in his mouth, he’s ready to spit it out and start speaking his mind. He’s done being quiet. He wants to pick up a microphone and tell his parents and Bucky’s doctors and the whole goddamn world that they’re wrong, they’re all dead _fucking_ wrong, and it’s time for a change. Looking around the packed club, he sees a mob of screaming, angry kids who all feel the exact same way. 

_We’re punks. And we’re not gonna take it anymore._

A clipped shout catches his attention, and he turns to see that a shoving match has broken out between two of the crowd members. Even when he was young and stupid, Steve hated it when people got rough with each other at shows. Now that he’s older and wiser, it almost makes him sick. There’s a whole world out there that hates them for being who they are. The last thing they should be doing is fighting amongst themselves. When he was just a scrawny kid there was nothing he could do about it, but now he’s got a six foot-tall body and he’s not afraid to use it. 

“Hey!” he barks, storming over and yanking the brawlers apart. “Knock it off! We’re all on the same side here!” 

One of the fighters instantly throws up his hands in submission, but the other one looks pissed as hell at being interrupted. 

“Back off, asshole!” he snarls. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” 

Steve straightens up to his full height and plants his fists on his hips. 

“I’m Captain America.” 

The first would-be combatant bursts out laughing while the other frowns even deeper, his temper too incensed to be amused. 

“You think this is a joke?” He demands, taking an aggressive step forward to give Steve a rough shove. “You better get the fuck out of my face before I—”

He gets cut off mid-sentence by Bucky’s fist slamming into the corner of his jaw. 

Bucky hits him so hard and with such precision that it sends him straight to the floor, collapsing like a marionette whose strings have just been cut. Apparently it’s not punishment enough, because Bucky follows him down, straddling his supine body and unleashing a series of rapid punches like gunfire, _pop pop pop_ right into his face until Steve grabs him from behind and drags him off. 

“That’s enough!” he yells, and Bucky doesn’t fight him, just lets Steve haul him all the way out of the club and into the street. When Steve lets him go, he tugs his jacket back into place and stares down at the pavement, mute. 

“That didn’t have to get violent,” Steve says. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky mumbles. 

“We shouldn’t be fighting each other,” Steve insists. “Save that for the real enemy.” 

“Sure,” Bucky coughs and shoves his bloody knuckles in his pockets. “Whatever you say, Cap.” 

He looks so ashamed of himself that Steve wants to tell him he’s not mad at him— but before he can think of the right words, they’re interrupted by the arrival of a third party. 

“Hey, slugger!” calls a guy coming out of the club. “You look like you could use a cigarette!” 

He marches up to Bucky and offers him just that. When Bucky accepts, the stranger lights it for him, then lights his own. 

“I know you,” Steve says. “You were the other guy in the fight.”

“Yep,” the other guys grins. “Thanks for saving my ass, _Captain._ ”

Steve remembers him because of his bowler hat, a weird anachronistic addition to his ripped jeans and studded leather vest. He looks like he’s just a few years older than Steve himself, with shitty tattoos on his forearms and a scattering of piercings in his ears. Still grinning, he thrusts out his hand.

“Tim Dugan,” he says. “Some people call me Dum Dum.” 

“Steve Rogers,” Steve replies, shaking hands. “Some people call me Captain America.”

“I like it,” Dum Dum laughs, then offers his hand to Bucky. “What’s your name, slugger?” 

Bucky is keeping his bandaged left hand hidden in his pocket, so he has to stick his cigarette in his mouth in order to accept the gesture with his right. 

“Bucky,” he says. “Some people call me Bucky.” 

Dum Dum gives another delighted hoot of laughter.

“Well, Bucky and Captain America,” he says cheerfully. “I like your style. Wanna go get shit-faced?” 

Steve gesticulates grandly. “Lead the way, Dum Dum.” 

They end up drinking together for the rest of the night, and as the sun comes up, Dum Dum takes them home. They walk all the way to Alphabet City, stopping at an abandoned tenement building on Avenue B that Steve instantly realizes has been adopted as a punk house. 

“We’ve got two new faces!” Dum Dum bellows as he comes in the front door. “When you see ‘em, say hello!” 

All the good rooms are taken; Steve and Bucky don’t find a vacant one until they’ve climbed five flights of stairs. They don’t even care. It’s _theirs._ And over the course of the next week, they make it into a home, scrounging and trash-picking until they’ve got a mattress, blankets, and posters on the walls. By the second week they’ve spent almost all of their cash on food, booze, and cigarettes, but Steve’s still got plenty of stuff to pawn so he isn’t even thinking about that yet. The only thing that’s troubling him is Bucky’s nightmares. 

He has yet to have one as bad as the one that triggered him in the motel room, but every night since then has been rough in its own way. More often than not Steve will wake up to Bucky thrashing and kicking in the bed next to him, his eyes open but unseeing, his teeth bared in pain and fear. It feels like it takes forever to wake him, and then even longer to help him remember that it’s over now. After that Bucky doesn’t want to sleep anymore, and he’ll sit out on the fire escape for the rest of the night, waiting for the sunrise. 

These past few nights, Steve tells himself that it’s been getting easier to rouse him from his night terrors. He wants to believe that Bucky is getting better. He _needs_ to believe it. In the meantime he’s going to be there for him every time he wakes up, to hold on to him and promise that he’s going to be all right. Trembling and soaked with sweat, Bucky will cling to him, nodding his head frantically. He needs to believe that he’ll get better, too. 

One night, as Steve is picking absently at the last few noodles in his Chinese takeout box, Bucky comes home with a drugstore bag in his hand. He fastens the chain that they rigged to the door and gives Steve a very serious look. 

“There’s something I need you to do.” 

Inside the bag, Steve finds a packet of sewing needles, a spool of thread, a pen, and a jar of ink. He understands immediately. After sterilizing one of the needles in the flame of a lighter, he binds it to the back end of the pen with enough thread to absorb the ink. Then he turns the pen around in his hands so he’s holding it properly, the needle now sticking up in the air like a bayonet held at attention.

“So, uh,” he says, feeling strangely nervous. “Where do you want it?”

Bucky leads him over to the mattress. Then he takes off his shirt, lies down on his back, and points to the space above his heart. 

“Right here.” 

Sitting down beside him, Steve leans over to write his name on Bucky’s skin, then leans even closer to seal his signature with a kiss. 

Bucky does shots of cheap vodka while Steve works on him with the needle, and when he’s not drinking he’s got one arm tucked behind his head and the other draped over Steve’s lap, his fingers absently tracing patterns on the surface of his knee. The first time they did this they were jabbering up a storm, laughing about their parents’ inevitable meltdown. Now they don’t say a word, the mood somber and hushed, almost reverent. Steve is practically on top of him, his face mere inches from Bucky’s bare chest while he works, occasionally hypnotized by the way it rises and falls. The needle goes into Bucky’s flesh and when it comes out it leaves a mark behind, again and again until Steve’s name gradually grows bolder and bolder across the living canvas. Specks of blood begin to appear along the script. Bucky never makes a sound, just submits himself entirely to Steve’s hand. Steve has never felt so close to another human being in his life. 

He’s sorry to see it end, but eventually the last ‘s’ is done and the signature is complete. He sets his tools aside and accepts the overflowing shot glass that Bucky offers him, downing it in one go before leaning back to admire his handiwork. 

“I should have added a few words here,” he teases, then taps the space above the name. “Property Of.” 

Bucky doesn’t laugh, just lowers his gaze, his tone soft. 

“I am, you know.” He glances up again. “Yours.” 

Steve’s playful grin fades into an expression of deep gratitude. 

“I know, Bucky,” he says quietly. “I know.”

He reaches out for his face and draws him into a deep kiss, Bucky’s hands pushing up into the short, bristly hair at the nape of Steve’s neck in answer. They soon move a bit lower, and then Steve can feel that Bucky has grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and is trying to pull it off over his head. 

“Come on,” Bucky says. “I want to see it.” 

Steve ends up shirtless with Bucky kneeling on the mattress behind him, tracing the faded ghost of his own signature with his fingertip. Again and again he goes over it, as though repetition of the act could take him back to the time when it was first created, when nothing mattered except who was playing at CBGB’s on Friday night. 

“I’m not the kid who wrote this,” Bucky murmurs. “Not anymore.” 

Steve turns around to face him, catching his wrist before he can retract his hand. 

“You will _always_ be the kid who wrote this,” he says fiercely. “Because no matter what you do, no matter how you change, you’re still _you._ Remember that. Please, you have to remember. You’re still Bucky. And I need you.” 

Bucky brings Steve’s hand to his mouth so he can press a kiss into his palm, his eyes squeezed shut with emotion. Then he’s pulling the rest of Steve in close enough to kiss him properly, and soon they’re falling down to the mattress together, legs and arms and everything else hopelessly entwined. Eventually Bucky’s hands work their way down between them to fumble with the fly of Steve’s jeans. 

“Get these off,” he implores, when he can’t do it himself. 

They split apart just long enough to wriggle out of their pants, each pair of jeans getting haphazardly thrown into a different corner. Then they’re lying down beside each other, skin to skin for the first time since they were separated. Steve is overwhelmed by the sight of every precious blemish and scar. 

“Bucky,” he whispers, reaching out for him. “Oh God, I missed you so much.” 

“I missed you too,” Bucky says in the breath before their mouths collide. 

Their bodies have changed. Bucky used to be the stockier one but now he’s the smaller, thin but not as gaunt as he was when he first got out, already starting to build back some lean muscle after a few weeks of freedom. Steve’s got that six-inch growth spurt plus two years of healthy living on his side, making him not only the bigger but the stronger of the two by far. Even so, the important parts are still the same. Bucky still moans when Steve bites his shoulder. Steve still shivers when Bucky licks the side of his neck. They still know how to touch each other. For a moment, everything is exactly how it used to be. 

Until Bucky starts kissing his way down the span of Steve’s chest towards his belly. Then it’s a sharp turn into unknown territory. 

“Wait, wait,” Steve gasps. “What are you doing?” 

Bucky freezes, his eyes darting up to Steve’s face. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

Steve doesn’t know what he wants. They’ve never made it this far before. Back in high school they’d spent the summer working their way from make outs to dry humping to getting naked and jerking each other off, but nobody had ever gotten up the nerve to be the first one to go down. Steve feels unprepared and embarrassed, like he’ll somehow make a fool of himself if they go any further. 

“You... you don’t have to do that,” he says lamely. 

Bucky crawls back up the length of his body to cover Steve’s mouth with his own. 

“I wanna do it,” he murmurs, his breath hot against Steve’s ear. “Please, let me do it. For you, Steve. I want to.” He kisses him again, then chuckles nervously. “That being said, uh, I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, so cut me some slack.” 

“That’s okay,” Steve says, managing a weak laugh in spite of his nerves. “Me neither. We’ll figure something out.” 

Bucky winks at him and crawls back down to where he’d been crouched before, then tries to figure out the best way to position himself. He ends up lying down on his side, one arm hooked under Steve’s thigh, propping himself up on that elbow so that he’ll be able to lower his head down over Steve’s cock. He brings his other hand up to rest on Steve’s belly, his fingers tapping anxiously. 

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I’m just gonna... I’m just gonna do it.” 

His hand slides down to wrap around the base of Steve’s erection, the grip firm and familiar. Steve groans, canting his hips toward him in welcome. Then Bucky licks his lips, leans down, and fastens his mouth over the head of Steve’s cock. 

“ _Shhhhhit,_ ” Steve hisses, his back arching, his hands clenching in the blankets. “Holy shit, Bucky, that’s— that’s—”

Bucky sucks, his cheeks hollowing and his tongue flicking. Steve’s eyes roll back in his skull. He reaches blindly for him, one hand grabbing a fistful of Bucky’s hair and the other pawing at his folded legs, at any part of him that Steve can reach. Bucky pulls his mouth away and sets to licking and kissing up and down Steve’s length, his hand roaming up the stretch of his abdomen to find a nipple and give it a sharp tweak. 

“You’re really good at this,” Steve pants, amazed. 

Bucky gives his cock an affectionate nuzzle.   


“Well,” he says, breathing hard. “I’m just trying to do what I would like.”

“It’s working.”

“Good.” 

Bucky takes his tip into his mouth again, and it’s so hot and wet and good and Steve just wants to go _deeper_ , and it’s like Bucky can read his mind because this time he pushes down, taking as much of Steve into his mouth as he can manage. He bobs his head and Steve whines, his hips jerking, trying to find a rhythm to match Bucky’s as he repeats the action, again and again until Steve is fucking his mouth, both hands clenched in Bucky’s hair. 

Then— either Steve gets carried away or Bucky gets overconfident— suddenly Bucky is wrenching his head to the side, his back spasming as he gags violently.

“Oh, God!” Steve cries, sitting bolt upright. “Sorry, sorry!” 

Bucky coughs and swallows hard, scrubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“It’s okay,” he wheezes. “My bad. I’m okay.” 

Steve takes Bucky’s face in his hands, and when he kisses him he can taste himself on Bucky’s lips. He smiles apologetically when they part. 

“I’m really sorry about that.”

“Hey,” Bucky says. “At least I didn’t vomit.” 

“There’s always a silver lining.” 

“Want me to finish?”

“Er... if you want to.” 

“Come on, Cap, don’t be shy.”

“...yes I want you to finish.”

“That’s more like it.” 

Bucky settles down and gets back to work, and it isn’t long before he’s got Steve writhing and gasping for breath. He can’t quite manage to finish him with his mouth alone, but he wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and gives it a couple of quick tugs and then Steve is coming hard, harder than he ever has in his life. Bucky’s not ready for it and gets the first spurt of come in the face, but then he fastens on and sucks up the rest of it like a pro. Then he’s laughing and wiping himself off while Steve just lays there, the room spinning around him, his whole body tingling with afterglow. 

“How’d I do?” Bucky wonders, grinning. 

Steve grins back at him. “Let me show you my appreciation.”

He starts to crawl towards him to return the favor, but Bucky stops him with a shake of his head. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “Just use your hand.” 

Steve’s grin falters. “But I want to—”

“Please,” Bucky entreats. “That’s what I want. I want you to hold me.” 

“Okay,” Steve says. “I can do that.” 

They rearrange themselves accordingly. Steve kneels on the mattress, sitting back on his heels with his legs together. Bucky straddles his lap, sinking down that so his ass rests on top of Steve’s knees, his erect cock now between them. Steve winds one arm possessively around his back and reaches down with the other to take hold of him. Bucky gasps, his arms tightening around the back of Steve’s neck, his fingers threading up through his hair. Steve presses between his shoulders to urge him down for a kiss, capturing a deep, aching moan with his open mouth. He jerks him off while Bucky clings to him, fighting for every breath. And when Bucky throws back his head at the moment of climax, Steve finds himself looking right at his own name, permanently inked onto the space over Bucky’s heart. 

Afterwards, they lie together in a nest of stolen blankets, smoking too many cigarettes and finishing the vodka by spitting it into each other’s mouths. 

What a way to start a honeymoon. 

Days go by. A week. Two. They never seem to leave their bed except for food and bottles of cheap alcohol. Steve’s working his way through his mother’s jewelry collection now, piece by piece. He can only use each pawn shop once or twice before he has to move on, lest suspicions be aroused by the same punk kid coming in every few days to unload yet another article of ladies’ jewelry. The money’s going to run out eventually, they both know that, but neither of them makes plans. Steve doesn’t care if they end up eating out of the garbage, as long as they’re eating it together. 

And Bucky hasn’t had a nightmare in ages. 

Late one night — or early one morning, if you want to get technical — they’re hanging out in Dum Dum’s room and passing around a whiskey bottle and a couple of joints. Bucky’s lying on the dingy couch that they found on the curb two days ago, his right arm extended so that Steve can work on it. Needle in hand, Steve is carefully filling in the inscription he just drew on the inside of Bucky’s forearm: _Never Forget, Never Forgive._

Dum Dum is sitting propped against the far end of the couch, and as he leans over to pass the bottle around again, he scoops up Steve’s latest sketchbook and brings it back with him, propping it in his lap so he can peruse it. It’s still open to the page where Steve had been practicing different font types for Bucky’s tattoo, so Dum Dum flips back to start at the beginning, as though expecting some sort of linear narrative. 

“Where’d you learn how to draw?” he wonders, thumbing through the pages. 

“Nowhere,” Steve answers. “Just sort of taught myself, I guess.” 

He doesn’t just draw Captain America anymore. These new pages are full of weapons and words, mutilated corporate mascots and a cartoon version of a loathed high school professor vomiting out the speech bubble “ _knock it off ya little punks._ ” There’s a handful of jagged depictions of the skyline as seen from his fire escape, and even a few sketches of the pigeons that land on the windowsills. 

“These are really cool,” Dum Dum marvels. 

He turns the sketchbook around and holds it out to Steve, pointing to the page.

“Do you think you could do this one on my chest?” 

It’s a drawing of a hand grenade, crossed over by a banner that reads **LET’S DO THIS.** At first Steve doesn’t understand the question. Then Dum Dum gestures at the needle in his hand, and Steve realizes that he wants it as a tattoo. 

“Oh! Uh...” He frowns and looks down at his current project, the flesh already red and inflamed and they’re only at the ‘g’ in ‘Forget.‘ It’s a long, painful process even for just simple typography. “I dunno, Dum Dum. I don’t think I could handle something like that with this set-up.” 

“You should get a gun.”

The phrasing makes Steve almost choke on his pull of whiskey. Dum Dum bursts out laughing.  


 “A tattoo gun, stupid!” he roars, slapping Steve on the back as he reclaims the bottle. After he takes a pull, he looks almost thoughtful. “You should, though. Get one. People would pay money for these.”  


 “People?” Steve echoes skeptically. “People who?”

“People who aren’t posers,” Dum Dum asserts. “People who want a tattoo from their own kind, on their own terms. You know everybody in this house would want one.” He taps the sketchbook with his finger. “Some of this shit is really good, man. Think about it.” 

It takes Bucky three days of hunting, but on the fourth day he drags Steve over twenty blocks away to a pawn shop that has an old tattoo machine for sale. Steve trades his father’s nicest watch for it, then unloads a pair of earrings and a necklace to get cash for ink and other supplies, plus enough left over to pick up a pizza on the way back to Avenue B. 

That night Dum Dum gives him fifteen dollars and Steve gives him the grenade on his chest. It’s the first time he’s ever been paid for his work as a tattoo artist. It’s not just a good feeling. It’s a great one. 

Later, after they finish up the cold pizza in their fifth-floor room, Bucky turns the machine over and over in his hands, mesmerized by it. 

“Now that you have this,” he says. “I want you to cover my whole body in your tattoos.” 

“That could take a while,” Steve observes. “A long while.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Guess I’ll have to stick around, then.”

“Guess so,” Steve smiles. “Where should we start?”

“That’s easy.” Bucky rolls up his sleeve and holds out his left arm, mottled all over with the shadows of old cigarette burns. “I’m done with this. I don’t want to see it anymore.” He touches the jagged scar on his shoulder. “Especially this.” He makes a slashing gesture where the limb meets his body. “I’d cut the whole thing off if I could, but I can’t. So I need you to fix it for me.” 

Steve takes him by the wrist, then runs his fingertips up the length of Bucky’s arm, his palm coming to rest over the worst of the scars. 

“I’ll fix it,” he assures him. “Just tell me what you want.” 

“I want you to make me feel strong again.” Bucky’s eyes are fierce and determined. “Make me feel indestructible.” 

Steve meets his gaze, steadfast.

“I will,” he says. “I promise.”

\- - -

\- -

-

_Two years later._

-

\- -

\- - -

Steve jams the stack of copies into his armpit so he can use one hand to hold the poster against the lamppost and the other to wrap a strip of tape from one end to the other, leaning in to clip it off with his teeth. It’s just a one-time gig in a shitty basement dive bar, but goddamn it, the Howling Commandos are gonna pack the place. They’ve been wallpapering the neighborhood with posters depicting the Captain America character engaged in various criminal activities. The one Steve just put up, which also happens to be his favorite, shows the star-spangled superhero in the middle of spray-painting the anarchy symbol on a brick wall. 

The show is tomorrow night. Steve is hoping he’ll be able to pick up a few new tattoo clients after the performance— some people love the idea of getting ink from the lead singer of the band they just saw. Besides that, he’s been working long enough and delivered enough satisfied customers that his art has been getting a pretty decent word of mouth in the neighborhood. He usually manages to make _just_ enough money to pay for the three essentials: food, booze, and cigarettes. He’s even been known to trade a tattoo for certain quantities of each. 

There’s a crowd lingering outside of CBGB’s, and Steve has to throw a few elbows to make it to the lamppost nearest to the club’s entrance. Once he gets the poster up, he elbows his way back out again, finally breaking free so he can stride over to the next lamppost and give it a poster as well. It’s this second poster, the one free from the clamor of the masses, that draws the attention of a few punks loitering on the fringes of the flock. One of them rips it down from the lamppost and holds it out for study.

“Captain America,” he scoffs. “In tights and everything. Are you fucking kidding me?”

Steve ignores them and keeps walking, but then the thudding of several pairs of boots comes marching up behind him, louder and louder until someone grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around for a confrontation. 

“Hey, pretty boy.” The guy throws the wadded-up poster in Steve’s face. “What the hell kind of faggot shit is this?” 

But from the moment the guy made physical contact with him, Steve has heard a single pair of boots beating double-time and approaching fast, and as the asshole finishes his sentence he’s suddenly blown off his feet by an uppercut that seems to come out of nowhere. Maybe he would have thought twice about starting trouble if he’d seen Bucky putting up his share of posters on the opposite side of the street. 

Completely blindsided, the asshole drops like a stone. Bucky plunges after him like a hawk diving onto his prey, pinning him to the cement with their faces inches apart, Bucky’s teeth bared in rage. 

“Say it again,” he growls. “Say Captain America’s a faggot. I fucking dare you.” 

The asshole gibbers incoherently. It’s a fairly understandable response to having a tatted-up punk with a mohawk hold a knife to your throat. Steve lets him sweat for a minute before he reaches down to tap Bucky on the shoulder. 

“That’s enough,” he says, and Bucky climbs back to his feet, giving the guy a kick in the ribs before he steps off, closing his knife and stowing it in his jacket.

As the asshole’s buddies help him up, Steve rifles through his stack of posters to find the nicest, tidiest copy. Then he offers it to them with a wide, innocent grin, as though completely oblivious to the violence that just occurred. 

“Here you go, fellas!” He gestures at the asshole’s mouth, which is streaming blood— he almost bit his tongue in half from the force of that uppercut. “Tell the guy at the door that Bucky did that to you and you’ll get in for free.”

He gives them a crisp salute, then turns and strolls away, trusting Bucky to follow him. He does. They walk a few blocks in silence before Steve speaks in a disapproving tone. 

“I sure hope you weren’t actually planning to stab that guy in the face.”

“Would’ve deserved it,” Bucky grumbles. 

“I had it under control.”

“Whatever.” 

“It was just one guy, I could have handled him.”

“It’s not about the fight,” Bucky snaps. “It’s about _respect._ ” He jabs a finger back in the direction they came from. “That asshole didn’t deserve to lick your boots. I wasn’t gonna let him talk to you like that. Nobody talks to you like that.” 

Steve sighs. It’s hard to stay mad at him when his actions stem from his stubborn protectiveness, especially considering the fact that it’s the very trait that brought them together in the first place, when they were fourteen and Bucky stood up for him when no one else would. 

“I appreciate it,” he says at last. “Just— maybe next time try it without the knife, okay?”

Bucky frowns and stares down at the street. Steve can practically hear the sounds of impact as he beats himself up over the bad behavior. 

“Hey,” Steve says. “It’s okay. The guy was an asshole.” 

“Sure,” Bucky says listlessly. 

“C’mon.” Steve nudges him with his elbow. “Let’s head back to base. I promised Dum Dum we’d do the new tat tonight, but after that my schedule’s wide open.” 

“Nah, man,” Bucky shakes his head. “If you’ve got shit to do, I’m staying out. I’ll catch you on the flip side.” 

Without waiting for a goodbye, he jams his hands in his pockets and lopes off down the street, already on the hunt for a way to blow off steam. 

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Steve calls after him.

“How can I?” Bucky turns and keeps walking backwards. “You’re talking all the stupid with you!” 

“Jerk!” Steve yells.

“Motherfucker!” Bucky crows back. 

Laughing, he pivots on his heel and continues on his way with a much lighter spring in his step. That’s all Steve wanted to do: make him smile. He leaves a trail of posters behind him as he makes his way back to the tenement building on Avenue C. The Avenue B house got cleared out about six months ago, but they settled into the new nest in record time. Steve and Bucky had a chance for a second floor room in this place, but Steve took them up to the fourth because he wanted a better view from the fire escape. Bucky didn’t protest. He likes to sit out there smoking his cigarettes and watching the sunset while Steve perches with a sketchbook on his knees, outlining the city’s silhouette. 

Dum Dum’s latest tattoo is simple enough, a grinning skull with a pair of crossed drumsticks behind it, celebrating his role as the drummer for the Howling Commandos. Steve inks it onto the back of his calf and collects his fifteen-dollar fee, then heads up to the fourth floor to wait for Bucky to come home. He makes a pass to see if there’s anything left over to eat, but the only thing in the room remotely resembling food is the can of Crisco, and that’s not for cooking purposes. He takes a swig of vodka instead, then lies down for a nap, knowing that Bucky will wake him when he returns. 

Sure enough, he’s jolted out of unconsciousness by the sound of Bucky kicking their front door shut behind him, his arms crossed strangely over his chest and a baseball bat tucked in the crook of his elbow. Before Steve can say anything, he throws open his arms and unzips his jacket. The baseball bat clatters to the floor, along with a shower of candy bars, soda cans, and little bags of potato chips. 

“Ta-da!” 

“Nice!” Steve exults, examining the treasure. “Where’d you go?”   


“Me and Nat were out smashing headlights.” Bucky comes down to the mattress to give him a kiss. “Don’t worry, we only tagged luxury cars. The real enemy.” He sounds so proud of himself for finding an appropriate outlet for his frustration. “Then we saw some vending machines and couldn’t resist.” He grabs a handful of snacks and lets them fall like rain. “Tonight we feast!”

Steve is glad to hear that Bucky went out with Natasha. She’s good for him. She understands Bucky on a level that Steve doesn’t. For example, Steve’s not really the headlight-smashing type, but he’d bet a million bucks that it was Nat’s idea in the first place. She and Bucky have lately gotten into the habit of sneaking out on “stealth missions,” which mostly involves breaking into places they shouldn’t be entering and taking pictures of things they shouldn’t be seeing. A few weeks ago they managed to snap an incriminating photo of a city councilman, and a popular tabloid bought the picture for a hundred dollars. They’re a good team. They even have code names. 

“So,” Steve asks, tearing open a bag of chips. “Did Black Widow get a share of the bounty?” 

“We split the snacks even,” Bucky grabs a can of Coca-Cola. “Then she got all the Fanta. Winter Soldier always has dibs on the Cokes.” 

He grins and taps the sides of the can to discourage bursting, then cracks it open and gulps down half of it in one go. He’s rocking slightly from side to side— a dead giveaway. Steve leans in and takes a whiff of him. 

“You smell good,” he says pointedly. 

Bucky snorts. “Busted.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a baggie with a solid eighth of weed in it. “I brought some for you, too.” 

Steve catches it when Bucky throws it to him, tugging the bag open and taking a deep inhale of its contents.

“ _Ugggh,_ ” he groans. “That’s good shit.” 

“We made a pitstop at Doc Erskine’s place,” Bucky brags. “That old bastard grows the dankest stuff, it’s unreal. Dope so good it makes you feel like a superhero.” 

“Where’d you get the money?”

“There’s more than just candy in vending machines, genius.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“C’mon.” Bucky digs a pack of rolling papers out of his pocket and waggles it under Steve’s nose. “Let’s get high as balls and fuck all night.” 

It’s like a shot of adrenaline straight to the dick— Steve grabs him and kisses him without even thinking. It isn’t until he’s watching a naked Bucky roll them a series of joints that he remembers they have an appointment tomorrow. 

“We can’t stay up _all_ night.” He forces himself to say it out loud. “We have to meet Peggy for lunch.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky shrugs. “When?”

“Two o’clock.” 

“Pffft. That’s like, ten hours from now. Don’t wuss out on me, Rogers.” 

“Just as long as you’re aware of the obligation.” 

“It’s your obligation. I’m just a guest at this tea party.”

“She _did_ help save your ass, you know.”

“ _You_ saved my ass.” Bucky gives him a sly smile. “That’s why it belongs to you now. Don’t you want to play with it?”

Bucky lays on his stomach so he can finish the last two joints while Steve massages his ass, working his hands in a slow, squeezing rhythm. When he’s done, Bucky rolls over and offers one to Steve and keeps the other for himself. They light up and set to filling the room with smoke. 

It’s funny, but as hardcore as Bucky is about nearly every other aspect of the lifestyle, he has a surprisingly strict code regarding drugs. _No pills, no needles._ “I had enough of that at Riverview,” he’ll say, when asked. “Nothing’s getting in my system like that again. I’ll smoke it, I’ll snort it, but that’s as far as I go.” Privately he has confessed to Steve his fear that hard drugs would destroy any kind of progress he’s made with his electroshocked brain. That’s why he sticks to dope. He says it’s one of the only things that makes him feel calm. 

By the time they’re each on their third joint, Steve is pretty fucking blazed. He’s just staring at Bucky, who’s lying beside him, trying to make smoke rings. In the faint half-light, his left arm almost looks like it really _is_ made of metal, all interlocking rings and intricate shading, months of agonizing work with the needle paying off in one massive, magnificent tattoo sleeve that covers him from shoulder to fingertips. Bucky is desperately proud of it. Steve is, too. When people look at Bucky, they don’t see scars anymore. They only see a bad-ass motherfucker. Bucky says it makes him feel like he can punch through walls. Sometimes, if he’s had too much to drink, he acts like it’s true. 

Steve’s down to one last hit. He fills his lungs, then taps on Bucky’s shoulder, getting him to lift up his chin so he can shotgun the smoke into his mouth. Bucky returns the favor with the last few tokes on his joint, and then they’ve safely extinguished all incendiary objects and they’re clear to move on to the next phase of their plan. 

Bucky takes the initiative straight away, rolling Steve onto his back so he can straddle him and have thorough access to all of his favorite things— namely, Steve’s piercings, which he likes to go over, one by one, with his mouth. First is the barbell in his eyebrow, and as he leans over to worry it with his tongue, he grinds his erection down onto Steve’s belly. Steve grabs him by the hips, and when Bucky tries to rock back up to ease the pressure, Steve won’t let him. Bucky hisses with pleasure, his tongue darting over to Steve’s ear and the ladder of piercings lining the cartilage. Steve uses his grip to roll Bucky’s hips until he’s moaning. Then he flips him. 

Now that it’s Bucky on his back, Steve is able to scoot far enough down his body to fasten his mouth onto one of his nipples. When his teeth tug lightly on the piercing there, Bucky gasps and fists his hands in Steve’s hair. Bucky had both of his nipples pierced over a year ago, and Steve has since discovered that when he plays with them, it drives Bucky absolutely insane. He sucks on the steel ring and delights in the way Bucky rises up towards him, his body thrumming like a guitar string. By the time Steve finally eases off, both of Bucky’s nipples are swollen and surrounded by bite marks. 

Somehow, after a lot of groping and staggering, Bucky ends up standing with his back against the wall while Steve kneels in front of him, sucking him off. 

“So I was thinking,” Bucky pants, carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. “About getting my dick pierced. What do you think?”

“I dunno.” Steve takes the opportunity to give his jaw a break and switches to pumping Bucky with his hand. “I guess it’d be sexy. But don’t those things take, like, six months to recover from?”

Bucky’s eyes bulge in horror.

“Six _months?_ Nah, man, fuck that. Forget I said anything.”

He ends up coming for the first time that night in Steve’s mouth, while Steve finishes himself off with his hand. Then they crawl back over to the mattress to smoke a few more joints and warm up for round two. Outside, the sun is coming up. Steve half-heartedly suggests going out on the fire escape to watch the sunrise, but they end up staying in bed and wolfing down candy bars instead. Then they curl up together, kissing with chocolate-coated tongues until their bodies have recovered and regrouped for another go. 

As always, Bucky winds up in his favorite position: the first one they ever shared. With his left arm slid under Steve’s thigh, he wraps his other hand around his cock and bends his head down to take him into his mouth. Steve gets a full-body tingle when he feels the bead of Bucky’s tongue piercing slide down the length of his erection. Bucky told him that the only reason he pierced his tongue was so he could give Steve a better blowjob. In Steve’s wildest adolescent fantasies, he never imagined that someone might one day do something so incredibly sexy on his behalf. He lies back and closes his eyes, raking his fingers again and again through Bucky’s mohawk, thanking his lucky stars.

He changes their positions before Bucky can finish him with his mouth. Reaching for the can of Crisco, he dips his first two fingers in for a scoop, then rolls Bucky onto his side and swipes the shortening along the cleft of his ass. Bucky arches his back in anticipation, the guns tattooed on his shoulderblades flexing with the motion. He sighs in contentment when Steve lies down behind him and pulls their bodies flush against each other, Steve’s cock now resting in the crease between Bucky’s legs as Steve wraps his arms around Bucky’s chest, holding him close. 

“You’re incredible,” he whispers in Bucky’s ear. “I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

Bucky makes a soft, affectionate sound, his hands reaching up to clasp Steve’s forearm. 

“It’s all you,” he says hoarsely. “You make me better.” 

Steve reaches down to take hold of Bucky with one hand, and when he starts rutting against him from behind, the thrusts make Bucky’s cock slide in and out of Steve’s Crisco-coated fist. Bucky digs his fingernails into the forearm still braced across his chest as they rock together, the room silent except for their labored breathing and the hot, wet sounds of fucking. They don’t need to say anything. It’s all been said. 

Bucky comes first, tightening and then shuddering apart in Steve’s arms, his muscles spasming and his cock pulsing as Steve coaxes out every last drop. Spent and satisfied, he happily goes along for the ride as Steve finishes himself off, grinding hard and fast until he comes all over the small of Bucky’s back. Then Bucky cranes his neck around so they can share a kiss, reaching up with his left hand to cradle the side of Steve’s head as he does so. 

The sun came up a long time ago. Daylight is fighting to get in around the edges of the sheets that they tacked up over the windows, but it’s nowhere near bright enough to keep them from falling asleep, surrounded by candy bar wrappers and empty Coke cans. 

Steve wakes up sometime around noon, gingerly detaching himself from Bucky and pulling on a pair of jeans so he can go sit on the fire escape and smoke a cigarette while he listens to the rumble of the city. When he comes back inside, he’s so taken by the shape that Bucky has managed to twist himself into that he feels compelled to draw it. He takes down one of the sheets from a window, careful to pick one that won’t spill a burst of sunlight onto Bucky’s face and wake him. Then he sits down on the floor with his sketchbook, another cigarette burning in his mouth as he gets to work. 

Bucky’s left arm is thrown over his eyes and his right one is twisted around and tucked underneath him, a rumpled bed sheet tangled so artfully between his legs that it looks almost intentional. Steve sketches the long, elegant lines of his reclining body, then goes back to pencil in the curves of muscle and other details, taking special care to capture every one of Bucky’s beloved tattoos. He spends the most time on the one over his heart, a detailed recreation of Captain America’s shield with Steve’s old signature now framed in the center of the star. After the arm, it’s Bucky’s favorite. 

Almost an hour goes by before Bucky finally yawns and stretches, his eyes opening blearily to squint against the sunlight. Steve sets his sketchbook aside and crawls over to greet him with a kiss. Bucky rubs his thumbs along the line of Steve’s jaw. 

“What time is it?” he mumbles. 

“A little after one,” Steve replies. 

“So we didn’t miss your lunch date,” Bucky smiles smugly. “Told you so. Now gimme a cigarette.”

It takes a lot of prodding to get Bucky dressed and out the door, but by a quarter to two they’ve hit the sidewalk and started walking. It’s early September and the weather is still pleasant. In a few months they’ll be shivering in their squatted rooms with no heat except for the wood-burning stove that Steve built out of a metal trash can, but right now it’s a perfectly nice day, so nice that they don’t even need their leather jackets except for show. Bucky still wears the one that they stole from Steve’s dad, but for his birthday this year he gave Steve a new jacket with spikes on the shoulders and lapels. They must look like quite a sight, two punk kids stomping through Washington Square Park on a sunny Friday afternoon, trailing a stream of shouted obscenities behind them as they argue about who would win in a fight, Indiana Jones or Han Solo. 

As Steve had suspected, Peggy is already waiting for them in front of the Waverly Diner. Now there’s a girl that will always be on top of things.

“Peggy!” he calls out to her, his hand raised in greeting. 

She actually does a double-take when she sees him.

“Oh my God,” she exclaims. “ _Steve?_ ” 

They hug. Then she holds him back at arm’s length, and Steve can see her eyes darting all over him, from the piercings to the tattoos to the brash, confident posture. 

“You look...” she says, at a loss. “Different!” 

“Pretty cool, right?” he laughs. “Now, I know you never really got a chance to know him, so let’s make this official— Peggy Carter, this is Bucky Barnes.” 

Bucky steps forward and offers his hand, which Peggy accepts warmly. 

“It’s nice to officially meet you, Bucky,” she says. 

“You too,” Bucky says. “Thanks for getting us that getaway car.” 

Her smile becomes emotional, and she clasps his hand in both of her own. 

“I was happy to help.” 

They get a table inside, and as Bucky shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair, Peggy gasps in surprise. Bucky grins. He cuts the sleeves off all his t-shirts for that exact reaction, for the moment when people see his incredible left arm and realize that they’re looking at a tattoo. She ends up sitting on that side of him so she can study the details while they wait for the waitress to come and take their order. 

“This is amazing,” she murmurs, then looks at Steve. “You did this?” 

“Yep,” Steve says proudly. “Took us a couple of months, but we got it there.” 

It really is an impressive design. When Bucky asked to feel indestructible, Steve took him to heart, re-imagining the scarred arm as something made of steel and titanium. He toyed with the idea of a more mechanical presentation, with nuts and bolts and pistons for the elbow, but ultimately he went with something more sleek, more deadly. Starting at his fingertips, Bucky’s arm is designed to look like a series of interlocking layers of metal, all forged into a single perfect unit. On his shoulder where the biggest scar used to be, there’s now a bright red star, an echo of the white star that Steve tattooed in the center of his own chest, just like Captain America. 

“You know,” Steve says to her. “If you ever wanted a tattoo of your own, it’d be on the house.” 

Peggy laughs, and Steve can’t tell if she’s being polite or if she’s actually considering it. 

The waitress arrives. They place their orders, and in the silence left behind by her departure, Steve decides that now’s as good a time as any. 

“So, uh...” he coughs uncomfortably. “Do you have any idea how my parents are doing?”

“Not much,” Peggy admits. “I haven’t really spoken to them since you left.” 

“Are they worried about me?”

“Only because they know who you’re with.” At Steve’s perplexed expression, she gives him a deadpan look. “Well you weren’t exactly subtle about it, were you? You hadn’t even been missing for twenty-four hours before Bucky disappeared from Riverview. Everyone knows it was you.” 

“It couldn’t wait,” Steve says, almost to himself. He feels the toe of Bucky’s boot nudge against his under the table. 

“Of course it couldn’t,” Peggy agrees. “Anyway, your parents knew we were friends so they tried to ask me what happened. I only told them that you would be happier where you were going, so they should be happy for you. I don’t know if they listened. They certainly weren’t pleased with the fact that you robbed their house.”

Bucky cups a hand to his mouth and calls, sotto voce, “Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Rogers!” Steve snorts and smacks him on the arm. 

“What about Bucky’s folks?” he wonders. 

But Peggy winces, her gaze flicking guiltily over to Bucky, fearful of how he’ll react. Bucky just rolls his eyes and flips up his middle finger, completely over it. Peggy sighs. 

“Mr. Barnes says that his son is dead to him now.”

“ _Now?_ ” Bucky laughs bitterly. “Didn’t I die like four years ago?” He leans over and spits on the floor. “Fuck that old man.” 

There’s a measure of quiet, and then Peggy reaches across the table to take Steve’s hand in her own.

“I just want you to know,” she says. “That I’m so glad you called. I really wanted to know that you guys were okay.”

“We’re more than okay,” Steve assures her. “We’re great.”

“Living the dream,” Bucky concurs, his tone only halfway sarcastic. 

The food arrives. There’s a club sandwich and hot tea for Peggy, a burger and fries for Steve, and a stack of pancakes with a pot of black coffee for Bucky. While they eat, they make small talk, each side curious to know how the other half lives. Steve is eager to know what life as a college student is like, so Peggy tells them all about her time at New York University, where she’s just starting her junior year. There’s even a few stories from when she went down to visit Howard Stark at MIT. And Peggy, for her part, is very intrigued by the punk lifestyle, and especially curious about their body modifications. She has them count out their tattoos for her — Steve has six, Bucky has thirteen. Then Bucky nearly causes a scene in the restaurant when he pulls up his shirt to show off his pierced nipples. 

“Can I— can I touch them?” Peggy giggles, scandalized. 

Bucky leans towards her. “I insist.” 

She’s so nervous about it that Bucky can’t help but give her a hard time, and when she gives one the tiniest little tug, he immediately pretends to scream in agony, causing her to dissolve into panicked apologies before she realizes that both of the boys are laughing. 

When the bill comes she offers to pick up their tab, but Steve declines. The whole reason he agreed to give Dum Dum his tattoo last night was so he could actually have cash to pay for lunch today. He even pays for Peggy’s tea, though he doesn’t have quite enough to cover her sandwich as well. She doesn’t mind. 

It isn’t until they’re leaving the diner that Steve actually works up the nerve to dig the crumpled poster out of his pocket. 

“Here,” he says, and he almost shoves it towards her before he catches himself and offers it politely instead. “We have a gig tonight.” He points at the name _The Howling Commandos._ “That’s my band.” He points to the drawing of a costumed superhero swinging a baseball bat at a car’s headlight. “And that’s Captain America.” 

Peggy accepts the poster and studies it, nodding in understanding. 

“Oh, I see,” she says. “Is that why you’ve got those...?”

She gestures at the stylized black wings tattooed on Bucky’s temples, one on either side of his mohawk. Steve has a complimentary set of wings hidden under his t-shirt, large and white and spreading out from the top of the star on his chest. Bucky reaches up and touches his head with a self-conscious laugh. 

“Ha, yeah.” He glances over at Steve. “I’m kind of a Captain America fanboy.” 

After verifying the time and place, Peggy promises she’ll be at the show. Best of all, it’s a Friday night, so she has nothing keeping her from going out drinking with them afterwards. Since they’re seeing each other again later, it makes it a lot easier for them to say goodbye now, though Peggy pulls Steve in for at least three hugs before she lets him go. Steve is glad he decided to reach out to her. He has a feeling that she’s going to be a lifelong friend. 

Back in their room, Steve and Bucky engage in their traditional pre-performance ritual: jerking off and taking a nice long nap together. They wake up long after the time when normal people would have eaten dinner, and while Steve plows through the last few bags of potato chips, Bucky guzzles the rest of his Coke and stuffs his face with all the saltine crackers that he stole from the diner that afternoon. Then they sit out on the fire escape, smoking a few cigarettes and passing their last joint back and forth between them. Bucky flicks his final cigarette butt over the railing and it sails away into the night, the lit cherry leaving a red trail of light as it falls. 

“Time to get ready?” Bucky wonders. 

Steve gives him a fierce grin. “Put on your war paint.” 

While Steve puts on his favorite pair of ripped jeans, Bucky uses his fingers to smear black greasepaint over his eyes, giving him a savage, predatory look. When he’s done with that, he restyles his soft mohawk so that it sticks straight up like a dorsal fin. Steve makes sure to wear his lucky Ramones shirt, but Bucky grabs one at random, knowing that he’ll rip it off as soon as they get on stage. Just before they leave, Steve strikes a pose, his fists planted on his hips. 

“How do I look?”

“Like my hero,” Bucky says, and kisses him. 

It’s a shitty basement dive bar, but there’s a stage and a crowd and that’s all that matters. When the Howling Commandos perform, they take no prisoners. Steve screams into the microphone until he’s red-faced and hoarse. Dum Dum attacks the drums like a maniac, and Natasha lets her long red hair fly as she shreds the lead guitar. Bucky plays so hard that there’s blood on his Fender bass, and when it’s all over he grabs the mike and yells, “ _Let’s hear it for Captain America!_ ” The crowd goes wild. Steve can see Peggy in the front row, jumping and cheering with all the rest. 

Later, as they come out the back door to meet Peggy for drinks, Bucky grabs Steve by the shirt and pins him against the wall behind the club’s dumpster, hidden from view of the street. A congratulatory kiss soon devolves into a full-on make out session, Bucky’s torn fingertips painting Steve’s face and hair with streaks of crimson, Steve’s hands shoved into the back pockets of Bucky’s tattered jeans. They kiss like nothing else matters, and in that glorious moment, nothing else does. 

And Steve thinks: _it was worth it._

 

 

 

 

_______end.


End file.
